


Life's a Bench, And Then You Die

by QuillerQueen



Series: Life's a Bench, And Then You Die [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - The Good Place (TV) Fusion, F/M, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-06 10:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14054964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: Regina Mills' life on Earth has ended, and she is now in the next phase of her existence in the universe. Welcome to the Good Place, where soulmates are real, and so is eternal happiness. Except things were never that simple in Regina's life, and she has little faith her death will be any different.Prompt 61: The Good Place AU.





	1. Chapter 1

Everything is _not_ fine.

 Regina Mills is dead. Deceased. Gone on to the afterlife, to the coveted, highly selective Good Place no less, a perfect utopia which in her case apparently is a quaint little town surrounded by pristine nature, with perpetual sunshine and a disproportionate fixation on frozen yoghurt. In the short while she’s spent here, she’s been promised eternal happiness, assigned a marble marvel of a mansion—and introduced to her soulmate.

 A soulmate who’s presently standing in her living room with stars in his eyes, flashing deep dimples at her, as if the awkward handshake she limits their very first contact to wasn’t entirely inadequate for such a momentous occasion. He just seems so genuinely thrilled to meet her, this perfect, wonderfully good man (he must be all those things, this _is_ Heaven after all).

 And she already knows she’s going to let him down.

 So no, everything is not fine. Nothing about this whole situation is even remotely fine. How could it be, when there’s clearly been a colossal cosmic oversight?

 Because Regina is not supposed to be here. She doesn’t belong in Heaven—not yet, perhaps not ever. She couldn't possibly, and how can they not know that?

 “Regina? Is anything the matter?”

 She blinks as the warm, lilting voice that’s not her own echoes through her mind. It’s him, the man with the crooked smile and dimples for days—her _soulmate_ , Robin, she recalls with a rush of panic—only the smily crinkles around his eyes have been replaced by a deep crease in his brow.

 “I hope I’ve not made you uncomfortable.”

 “No,” she denies automatically. “No, of course not. I'm just—It’s a lot to take in.”

 And where has Esther, the self-described architect and, apparently, concierge of this neighbourhood, gone? That flashy shade of turquoise in her hair would be hard to miss, and its absence in Regina’s spacious living room can only mean the owner’s absence as well. How dare she just disappear on them while Regina still has more questions than she knows what to do with?

 “So how does this work exactly?” she blurts out, gesturing vaguely at her surroundings. At least the universe has taste when it comes to interior design, and her place looks presentable. But wait—is it _her_ place, or…? “Are we supposed to—live together now?”

Because that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? They don’t even know each other. She can’t be expected to share her life—or, well, death—with a complete stranger just because some celestial formula has declared them soulmates.

“I've a cottage by the forest nearby. Just say the word and I'll be out of your hair.”

It’s clear as day he’s caught the anxious edge to her words (she’s going to have to be more careful around him), and she’s grateful at least for the half-smirk he delivers the last bit with, even though it’s only half jest, half reassurance. The mood is too weighted, and she’s by no means ready to bare her soul to him (or anyone else for that matter).

“You're my soulmate,” she counters with a half-hearted eyeroll, valiantly ignoring the way her belly clenches at the thought. Thankfully it does little to curb the signature note of sarcasm that’s second nature to her as well as sa proven, if dubious, defence mechanism. “Who'd say no to the promise of such a profound connection?”

“Well, as you so aptly said, it’s a lot to take in. Especially,” he says sympathetically, worrying his lip as he watches her, “if there was someone on Earth...someone you had to leave behind.”

She thinks of Henry, of Jacinta and Lucy, the only family she had and needed and would not see again anytime soon. It’s a good few moments, spent feeling the sting of sorrow, before Robin’s real implication dawn's on her. Her son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter are not who he’s asking about, are they?

“Oh. No, it’s not like that.” There’s no one in her life, not romantically. Daniel’s long gone, and aside from a couple of short-lived hookups and one torrid affair gone up in flames a while ago, Regina’s been licking her wounds alone ever since. “Even if I had, fate clearly has other ideas, right? Written in the stars and all that.”

“I suppose the idea might feel a bit confining, yeah?”

Overwhelming, is what it is, but she doesn’t tell him that.

“Some would see it as a guarantee,” she shrugs instead.

“But not you.”

“No, not me.” Life had a habit of kicking Regina Mills in the teeth way too much for her to entertain any illusions about what fate might have in store for her; she’d sooner be found fighting it tooth and nail. “I like to be in charge.”

Of her own destiny, she means, but it’s too late to amend her statement, because Robin’s sporting a full-blown smirk now.

“Noted,” he says with a cocked brow, and she most definitely doesn’t blush or flush hot when his teeth dig ever so subtly into his bottom lip.

“A toast, then,” he suggests, picking up the two lowball glasses conveniently sitting on the bar, each containing about two fingers of an amber liquid Regina sincerely hopes is a decent brand of whiskey. “To forging our own path.”

 _I don’t daytime drink_ , she wants to tell him, because it’s only a short step from drinking buddies to, well, more. But frankly, it’s been quite a day, what with dying and moving on to an unexpected form of afterlife including the promise of a happy ever after with a stranger (a handsome, kind, charismatic one perhaps, but a stranger still), and she’s craving the burn of alcohol sloshing down her throat and loosening the tight coil in her belly. So she accepts the offered glass, fingers trembling slightly when they brush against his, and that’s not helpful at all.

“To forging our own path,” she repeats before knocking back the contents. 

* * *

It turns out their path leads to a grand welcome party complete with opulent decorations, a string quartet, and an open bar Regina is tremendously grateful for.

Robin’s disappeared for a moment, leaving her alone with the hostess, one Mary Margaret Blanchard, a chipper pixie of an heiress, who appears to have earned her place here through decades of charity work. She also seems to have immediately taken to Regina for some unfathomable reason, chattering away about her own life and death (a horseback-riding accident—and what a random way to go) and trying to wheedle out information from a very reluctant Regina in return.

“It seems you were quite the hero,” Regina says dryly, looking around for a waiter to top up her woefully empty glass. “And a motivational speaker.”

The hint of sarcasm does nothing to quell Mary Margaret’s enthusiasm.

“Optimism runs in the family,” she beams, and isn’t she a regular ray of sunshine. “Oh, have you met my soulmate, James?”

To hear her tell it, James is a real Prince Charming—heir to a title in some obscure European country and decorated veteran fallen protecting his homeland from terrorists. The man himself doesn’t say much—he has his hands full trying to look dignified while gawking adoringly at Mary Margaret.

Regina needs to either excuse herself right now or grab that drink and make it a double, or else the whole neighborhood is about to find out just how much she doesn’t fit into their perfect little world.

Blessedly, Robin reappears beside her in that very moment, a glass in each hand, and relinquishes one to her without hesitation.

“May I have this dance?” he asks with an elaborate bow, and Regina stares. Is he insane? She’s been avoiding the dancefloor like the plague all night. “Although I’m afraid that’d mean having to excuse ourselves from present company.”

Oh. Now it makes sense. She grabs his arm and throws a half-hearted apology Mary Margaret’s way, letting her float away to some other group of guests.

“You don’t like her much, do you?”

“A bit sanctimonious for my taste,” Regina sneers.

“Nothing wrong with also enjoying the limelight while doing good, no?”

“I suppose not,” she shrugs, teetering between remorseful and irritated. Is irritability acceptable in the Good Place? Perhaps it’s a bug in the system just like she is. Perhaps she’s overly suspicious, cynical to a fault—this is the Good Place after all, and Mary Margaret is a good person. Still, Regina would rather be her sarcastic self than a goody two shoes, and if Robin can’t handle that, well then the sooner they part ways the better for them both. “I had the situation under control, by the way—no need to come to my rescue.”

“That lovely vein in your forehead told a different story.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her lip’s twitching in response to his smirk, flustered though she is at being read so easily. Flustered, and maybe a bit...touched, that he’d even think her worth the effort. So she offers a reconciliatory: “At least this is good whiskey.”

“A simple thank you would suffice.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stunning.”

Oh.

Well then.

Regina’s belly performs an odd routine of jolts and flutters, and she ducks her head to hide the silly little blush his compliment paints on her cheeks. She’d blame it on the drink, or the compulsory soulmate thing, but he said it so softly, without bravado, like a confession that simply slipped out, and she's not quite sure how to handle this.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

No lie there—he certainly cleans up well. He’s switched jeans and hoodie for a crisp navy suit that does wonders for his eyes, and trimmed but kept the stubble hiding those dastardly dimples. He’s well-built, too—she could feel toned muscle even through his shirt and jacket as they walked arm in arm. He’s gorgeous, gorgeous man.

And this is a dangerous, pathetic, moot line of thought, so she directs her mind elsewhere, taking a mighty sip from her drink.

“So what did you do for a living? Rescue puppies? Feed the homeless?”

It’s not much of a stretch—her new neighbours did all those things and more. Human rights missions, organ donorship, volunteering all over the world—you name it, these people seem to have done it all.

“Actually, I used to be a thief.”

“Excuse me?” she sputters, almost choking on her drink. Surely he must be joking, right?

“It’s true, I have a criminal record from back when I was young and troubled. But then, well, I changed. I suppose you could say I developed a soft spot for the underdog. Did a bit of social activism here, a touch of environmental activism there. Perhaps not always by the book, but it’s the outcome that matters, yeah?”

Well the man is just full of surprises, isn’t he?

“Isn’t that a little Machiavellian? The end justifies the means?”

“Depends on the end—and the means.”

“Mhm, I quite agree.” So, clearly, does the cosmic point system, because he’s here, isn't he?

She braces herself for the inevitable barrage of questions, but instead of pushing for answers she's not offering, Robin seems to catch on and carries the conversation. He tells her about his death (a stray bullet in a street altercation he was trying to de-escalate, and he may be making his naivety and clumsiness into a joke but all she sees is _good,_ and _pure,_ and how could he possibly be meant for _her_?), and then about his life—about his job as a park ranger, and the group of friends who’ve become his family after his wife had died in childbirth, and above all his son, Roland. His eyes simultaneously light up and brim with tears, and the love and pride and sadness that overcome him are almost palpable, drawing her hand to settle on his arm and rub up and down soothingly.

Regina is half-tempted to bring up Henry, to let her heart crack open and bleed love like Robin’s done, and perhaps find solace in their mutual outpour of parental sentiment; but they’re in public, and even though she no longer feels the overwhelming need for caution around him, she tells herself she probably should.

She’s let her guard down around him way too much already.

She’s also chugged twice the whiskey he has while talking, but he’s catching up fast, and maybe it’s time to steer them into safer waters rather than get stuck in a loop trading sob stories.

Searching for an appropriate topic, her eyes land on the shapes of Mary Margaret and her partner, both blurry around the edges, her tiara lopsided as he twirls her on the dancefloor. It’s over the top, and sickening...ly sweet. Very in line with the whole fairy tale theme.

“I hope you don't mind missing the princess dance-off,” she challenges, shocked to find she’d actually care if he did.

Robin follows her gaze easily, the smile dancing on his lips not unkind.

“Not at all.” And then his eyes return to her, gazes locking. “I prefer queens—Your Majesty.”

She swallows heavily (and it has nothing to do with whiskey, because there’s not a drop of that left).

“Even evil ones?” she returns, her voice dropping an octave without her ever authorising such a thing. “The curse-casting, fireball-flinging sort?”

“Hm, are they really? Bold and audacious, perhaps, but not evil. And I think we’ve already established it’s impossible to curse here in the Good Place.”

Right, they have established that, perhaps embarrassingly early in the day, and fork censorship. _Fork it._

“As far as your other threat goes...” He leans in, smelling of some heady mix that's whiskey and cologne, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips as she gravitates towards his body. Is he about to—

But he shifts in the last moment instead, leaving her feel bereft and slightly foolish. Still, he’s close, close enough that his words are little puffs of air on her neck, raising shivers when he whispers: “I rather enjoy playing with fire.”

So much about safer waters.

Regina is warm, warm and breathless, and he’s still just inches from her, their breaths mingling, sparks flying (she must definitely be drunk to think in such cliches), but he’s not closing what little distance remains between them. He’s not even touching her—only hovering, but even that is enough to have her trembling with anticipation and, yes, arousal coursing through her.

It’s pure torture.

And Robin must be feeling the same, because his eyes have turned a shade darker and he bites his lip just so, and that’s it, that makes something inside her shift—or perhaps it’s the axis of the world—as she teeters on her toes.

A moment later, she’s in his arms— _forking finally_ . But something’s off, he’s not embracing as much as propping her up, helping her regain her balance as she sways on unstable feet, and when did she get so drunk? He mutters something in her ear, something that sounds like _I’ve got you_ and _home_ , and next thing she knows his arm’s around her waist and they’re outside.

“Excuse me, Archie?”

_Ding._

“Hello, how may I help you?”

Regina blinks.

A man has just materialised out of thin air, with receding wisps of red hair and glasses perched on his nose, wearing a green vest and a purple suit, clutching an umbrella, and sporting a cheerful smile.

“Who the f-fork are you?” Regina blurts out, tripping over her tongue.

“I’m Archie. I'm the informational assistant here in the Good Place.”

“Archie here's like a walking database—and he can also provide any item anyone desires at any time in an instant. Archie, would you perchance have a hangover remedy at hand? I’d wager we’ll both need one come morning.”

“By design, hangovers have been removed from the Good Place. You will experience none of the symptoms usually associated with excessive alcohol consumption.”

“Maybe we should get another then,” Regina says, with a lopsided wink. She likes the buzz, likes how bold it’s making her, how uninhibited and free to explore fantasies she would decidedly chide herself for were she sober.

But Robin shakes his head—spoilsport.

“Perhaps another time. For now, milady, your carriage awaits.”

“’s Your Majesty,” she giggles (yet another thing sober Regina simply doesn't do). “Will it turn into a pumpkin after midnight?”

“This old pile of junk?” The pickup truck he’s helping her into is old and rusty, with green paint chipping off everywhere—a rather dystopian look, so it must have some sentimental value to compensate. “I should hope not.”

The ride is a blur. Regina spends most of it with her face smushed against Robin's shoulder, inhaling the fresh, woodsy, rather intoxicating smell of whatever flattering scent he’s wearing. It’s oddly arousing, even with their robotic driver slash sentient computer slash personal assistant sitting right next to them.

Her foyer is huge and much too bright. She craves candlelight and satin sheets—and Robin’s body to warm them. His hands on her hips, just like they are now but without the clothes in the way, clutching with intent much less innocent than presently helping her stay upright while she kicks off her stilettos. His mouth on hers, then trailing kisses lower, down her neck and tracing her decolletage…

That's when she decides she's going to kiss him. Now that her sober, anxious, doubt-ridden self isn't here to ruin the fun, Regina's going to kiss this incredibly handsome, incredibly sexy man—and he's going to kiss her back, hard, until they both see stars, and then they'll gasp for air and dive right back in for more, and and and…

Still unsteady, she turns in his arms, throwing them both off balance, grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket and yanking him forward—but she miscalculates, and instead of a meeting of lips, they end up nose to cheek with simultaneous _ow_ s, his chuckle pulling one from her as well, and soon they're both in stitches over the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“Let’s get you to bed, shall we?”

“Mhm, that was the idea,” she slurs as they start up the stairs together.

“Not like that, darling,” he says, the smile evident in his voice, and she frowns at the sheer injustice of it. “How about we revisit that thought tomorrow—provided you still want to, that is.”

He tucks her in and kisses her sweetly, a soft thing against her brow, before he bids her good night and closes the door behind him.

She's asleep before the trace of pine trailing behind him fades.

* * *

When she wakes up, it’s pandemonium.

People are screaming and running for their lives. Mere dots in the distance oddly reminiscent of a blur of buzzing bees, they struggle to avoid being squashed by the wheels of a giant carriage on a wild rampage in a vast pumpkin patch sprung up overnight. A huge hammer is banging away on a monstrous anvil hanging in midair, with a force she can feel throbbing against her skull.

Regina runs out to the porch just in time to catch Esther ushering everyone back into the safety of their homes to seek shelter against the downpour of trash, and as Robin comes sprinting with his arms over his head, it hits her.

Piles of junk. Pumpkin carriages. Forging paths.

The buzz pun is mediocre, but then again, there are no literal bees, are there? The residents of the neighbourhood are just wearing the same ludicrous striped pattern Robin’s cargo pants and hoodie are made of.

The same pattern Regina, as the only one among them, isn’t wearing.

“Inside!” she shouts, holding the door open as Robin dodges fireballs whizzing past his ears, then slamming it shut behind them.

* * *

_Holy forking shirt._

Not only is it clear as day that she doesn’t belong in the Good Place—now she may have brought about its end.

She’s not worthy of paradise.

Robin, however, has other ideas.

He gets her through this clusterfork of a day. He asks Archie for a disguise, something made of the same abomination of a fabric everyone else is dressed in, so she blends right in. If he suspects something, he doesn’t say. He’s just there, like it’s nothing, like it’s only natural.

It’s all new to her, this unconditional support. She’s not entirely sure what to make of it, or what to do about it. She wants to thank him, and at the same time can’t properly express the magnitude of it without unravelling before his eyes. So she says nothing. But from that day on, she meets his eyes more often, and more warmly. When they brush against each other, she chances a stroke or two of her fingers over his skin. And Robin responds every time, leaning into her touch, returning every single one in kind, but never pushing her.

There’s no point denying it—Regina likes him. Yes, she likes him, and she can tell Robin likes her (or the person he _thinks_ she is anyway).

And it cannot be. Nothing (and certainly no good) can ever come of it.

Ain’t karma a bench.


	2. That's Karma, Benches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regina blames herself for the things going wrong in the Good Place and decides to confess, but feels she owes it to Robin to tell him the truth first.

Everything is absolute shirt.

_Shirt._

_Oh for fork’s sake!_

Nothing has ever been less forking fine than the mess they’re presently in, and Regina doesn’t even have the luxury of swearing to let off steam.

Ever since she died and came here to spend the rest of eternity, the Good Place has been in a state of constant, violent upheaval. Bee infestations, migraine-inducing hammers banging on giant anvils, and murderous pumpkins on a rampage had only been the beginning. Showers of trash literally falling from the sky have become something of a regular affair, and now there’s a giant sinkhole of doom gaping in the middle of the neighbourhood, threatening to swallow them all.

So nothing is fine, and it’s all her fault.

Because Regina Mills doesn’t belong here.

She’s a bad person. She’s always been a bad person, and that’s the ugly truth. Her revelation on earth had come too late to make up for her mistakes. In death, she’s only been committing more atrocities. She’s been lying and cheating, not actively perhaps, not to get herself here, but certainly by pretending, by staying quiet, to remain where there’s no rightful place for her.

Regina, it seems, is a good liar, an accomplished fraud. Somehow, by some twisted miracle, no one’s caught on but David, and only because he, too, is a pretender to a twin brother he hadn’t even known existed until the mix-up at death. Even David’s (James, he goes by here) soulmate, the annoyingly chipper Mary Margaret, knows nothing—she’s sickeningly smitten with David and, more oddly still, genuinely thrilled to be Regina’s friend, taking her sarcasm and dryness in stride. For fork’s sake—Esther, the poor architect of this compromised utopia, even asked her help, _Regina’s_ help of all people, to get to the root of the problem, and how evil must Regina be to have gone along with this charade?

But the worst thing? The absolute worst of all this? The one person Regina could never, will never forgive herself for hurting?

Robin Locksley—her ally, her friend, her soulmate.

He’s been there for her since her first night in the Good Place. He’s taken interest in her, hasn’t given up on her, but never once pressured her. He’s rescued her from boring conversations and drunken mishaps, seen her safely home, stood by her through the pandemonium that was the following morning and every calamity since. She couldn’t dislike him even if she wanted to (and how she wanted to!). She tried to push him away, with snark and barbed retorts and even outright cruelty for a while, but it was half-hearted at best, and he never left.

Regina’s been too weak for her own good, and his.

Because Robin doesn’t know the real her. He’s no idea who he’s dealing with. A fake soulmate, one way or the other, is all she is to him.

Regina may be awful and vile, but she still has a conscience, and she’s done silencing it. That’s why she’s standing here, at the door of Robin’s woodside cottage, knocking instead of letting herself in as usual.

“You’re early,” he smiles, and his eyes crinkle, cheeks dimple.

God, he’s happy to see her, has no idea he should hate her. He’s going to despise her in a moment. Regina swallows—can’t cry, won’t cry—and of course he catches on, of course he does.

“What’s the matter?” he frowns, reaching for her, his thumb swiping her cheek in that comforting way.

She must be a mess already if he’s gone straight for that.

“We need to talk,” she manages, heading straight for the cushy couch that’s been witness to so many lazy cuddles and a solid number of passionate trysts.

Robin follows, discards the dishcloth he must have been busy with before, and settles next to her, waiting. He does this—waits her out, gives her space to do things in her own time. Why the fork can’t she draw a proper breath?

“You know,” he shrugs with a half-smirk, “for a perfect utopia, there’s quite a lot going awry.”

She knows what he’s doing, trying to lighten the mood, to take off the pressure—and she can’t handle it, can’t sit there and let him treat her with such kindness when she deserves not an ounce of it, least from him.

“I don’t belong here.”

There. It’s out. Breathless, but firm (passably so). She even looks him in the eye as she says it, because he deserves that, and she’s not completely spineless. But she can’t bear to much longer than that, so she waits for his response with her head bowed, picking at the patchwork throw.

Robin doesn’t rage. He doesn’t recoil or send her on her way, nor does he ask how or why she means it. In fact, he doesn’t speak at all.

Instead, she feels his fingers trace her jaw before he cups her chin with a softness she can’t comprehend or even absorb without a pathetic little whimper as he coaxes her to meet his eye.

“I know you believe that,” he tells her—soft, and kind, and firm especially when he adds: “And I disagree.”

“You know I believe that?” She’s never told him—wanted to, sure, been plucking up courage to, but she’s never actually told him before. “How could you possibly know?”

“Regina, you criticise yourself constantly. Not directly, perhaps, but all the self-deprecating jokes...they come from someplace deeper, yeah?”

“No one’s ever picked up on that.”

“Well, I have.”

She chokes out a laugh in hopes of banishing the sting in her eyes.

“There goes my carefully constructed facade.”

Robin shakes his head.

“You’re so much more than that. You’re strong and tenacious. Passionate and fiercely protective. You’ve a sharp mind—and a sharp tongue,” he adds with that irritatingly adorable smirk of his that she wishes she could kiss off, but now’s not the moment. (She’ll never get to do that again—shouldn’t get to, anyway.)

“Perhaps,” she shrugs, “but I’m not _good_.”

And so, with a heavy heart, she tells him her story.

She tells Robin about the reckless marriage to a man thrice her age to escape her overbearing mother, and how horribly wrong that had gone. She tells him about the divorce her husband had fought tooth and nail, and the scars she has to show for it. She tells him about the heart medicine she’d flush down the toilet to replace with innocuous pills that didn’t protect the patient but in the end saved her. She tells him about the tears she cried at the funeral, not of grief but relief and new-found freedom, and the smile she had to suppress. She tells him how she turned her heart to stone to protect herself, and hurt everyone around her in the process—and she tells him at length, because that’s what she regrets, that’s what truly keeps her awake at night.

And finally she tells him, barely above a whisper, how it was too late for her by the time she’d changed her ways and found her path again, how there wasn’t enough time for her to even begin to make up for her mistakes, for life has run its course and now here she is.

(She doesn’t tell him about Henry, because he already knows that her son was the light of her life, and the one thing she finally got right—she’s always been honest with Robin about him.)

“So, you see,” she sniffs, her face refusing to arrange itself into even the ghost of a smile, “I’m just not good enough. And I’m sorry, Robin. I’m so, so sorry.”

Because that’s what she’s come here for. To tell him the truth before she tells Esther, before she tells everyone. Because he deserves to hear it from her first. Because she desperately wants his forgiveness, even though he doesn’t owe it and she definitely doesn’t deserve it.

“Regina—”

“Robin, I promise I’m going to fix this. I’m going to confess, give myself up, and spend my life—well, death, in the Bad Place, where I belong. The neighbourhood will heal, and everyone will have the afterlife they deserve. That, I can do. That, I can fix. But you… I can’t ever make this up to you. I only hope you find happiness.” Her heart trembles in its cage like a frightened bird as it braces itself against her next words. “I really, truly hope we’re not soulmates.”

“You hope we’re not…?” Robin winces, his fingers gripping hers tighter as his voice breaks.

“If we’re really a match, your soulmate is...well, evil. If we aren’t...you’re missing out because of me, because I’m taking their place by your side.”

“Let me stop you right there.” He brings their joined hands to his heart, lays her palm flat over where it’s _thump-thumping_ away. “There’s no one else I’d rather have by my side. I care about you, Regina.”

“Robin…” All she wants is to bask in his affection, but: “What if it’s not real? You care about me because I’m supposed to be your soulmate.”

For a moment he merely stares at her, his brow creasing..

“It doesn’t matter whether or not you’re my soulmate,” he tells her, each word clear and filled with conviction. “I don’t love some abstract idea of a soulmate. I love _you_. And if you happen to be mine, then all the better.”

There it is—the L-word.

They’d never said it to each other before. She was sure they never would once he learned the truth. Now he knows—and he still wants her?

Not just wants her, he’s telling her he _loves_ her—and she’s yet to say it back.

The kiss is bruising, all her hard-contained anxiety bursting through and pouring into it, all the love she doesn’t trust herself to voice just yet, and Robin’s hand are in her hair, tangling, stroking, soothing as the heated exchange winds down to tender kisses and affectionate pecks.

“I’m still going to give myself up,” she whispers, brushing her nose against his, then resting their foreheads together. “I’m done taking credit for someone else’s actions. It’s not right, it doesn’t feel right, and I don’t want to do it any longer.”

“I understand, and I respect that.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. And I will stand by you, Regina, through all of this. But,” he brushes her hair back delicately, drawing back just enough that his face is in focus. “I will not stand idly by while they haul you off to the Bad Place, because that is not where you belong. Your life on earth may have ended too soon for you to make full amends, but look what you’ve accomplished here. You’ve been helping Esther run this place, and you’re brilliant at it. You’ve friends who care about you—who you care about, even if you pretend to find them annoying.” She snickers at that, and Robin grins back at her. “I think they’ll see this the way I do. Everyone deserves a second chance, love.”

Regina may not be perfect, may not entirely believe herself worthy of the Good Place or a second chance, but she has always been meticulously punctual.

Today, she’s going to be late for work, all because of a wonderfully kind man who _loves_ her, and his wonderfully comfortable couch.

She’s going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Before shirt inevitably hits the fan.


End file.
